Page 57 of The Bargain

Normally, she’d be at the centre of the revelry, holding court or dancing in a circle of admirers. But there’s little cheer to be found anywhere tonight; if anything, it seems to be quickly slipping into madness and debauchery.

I don’t know if it’s the red lights or the cold wet mist slowly creeping up the hill to lick at the edges of the Montgomery estate, but a strange, feverish atmosphere seems to be spreading through the halls of the mansion like a contamination.

I pass a grand lounge where two boys are sparring with ceremonial swords, the crowd around them cheering and cackling. Outside, the outdoor pool is stained crimson with either dye or something more sinister; steam writhes from the water as topless boys dunk one another, seemingly for as long as possible until they start thrashing. A girl dressed as a ghostly bride, translucent white veil covering her face, sits on the edge of the pool, her skirts gathered at her hips, her long, naked legs dyed pink by the red water.

Back inside, I pass three witches doing lines off the surface of a gilded mirror while two boys wrestle on top of an antique divan. At first, I think they’re fighting, because the one lying on his back is holding the one straddling him by the throat, but then the boy on top opens his mouth in a hoarse, rasping moan, and I back away, stumbling into the corridor, where I go crashing into another girl.

We both turn at the same time, and I see my own shock reflected back at me.

Time seems to stop.

My heart drops in my chest.

“Ophelia!”

She takes in my outfit with her mouth forming a wide, startled O. Not that she’s in any position to judge: she’s wearing a black ensemble so skimpy I resist the urge to rip one of the old and no doubt priceless tapestries from the wall to wrap around her body.

My heart sings: She’s here! She’s here! She’s here!

Even as my brain warns: She shouldn’t be here. She shouldn’t be here. She⁠—

“You shouldn’t be here.” My voice comes out harsh and cold. I feel suddenly, icily, mortifyingly sober. “You⁠—”

“Don’t start,” she snaps. “I’m not doing anything wrong, you⁠—”

“You’re fifteen!” I hiss, grabbing her by the arm, agonisingly aware of everything I just saw: the girls doing lines and the boys making out on the couch and every other debauched thing I’d just witnessed. “You should be back at school, in your dorm, where⁠—”

“Mum and Dad aren’t dead,” Ophelia hisses, ripping her arm out of my grip. “You’re not in charge of me, Dess!”

“Mum and Dad aren’t here,” I hiss back. “Which means I’m in charge of keeping you safe!”

“I’m not some helpless little kid, so stop treating me like I am.”

But you’re fifteen, I wish I could cry out. You’re fifteen, and something bad happened to you, and now Birnam is in hospital and his phone is in Elias’s room, and you’re here.

My heart is shivering within my chest, brittle with anxiety, every heartstring stretched so thin and taut that they feel like they could snap.

“You’re leaving with me,” I tell her. “Now.”

“Over my dead fucking body,” Ophelia snarls.

“Don’t think I won’t⁠—”

I don’t even get to finish my sentence. The music stops.

Everything goes dark.

21

Passing Shadow

Desdemona

Chaos erupts all around us: voices shouting in annoyance and confusion, screams of fear and excitement, whoops and jeers of morbid delight. I reach out blindly, trying to grasp Ophelia, to catch a hold of her before she can once more vanish like mist from my life.

An arm seizes my waist, and then I’m dragged back into a room, away from Ophelia, my feet stumbling across a too-smooth floor. My senses are overwhelmed with noises, with the heat of bodies and sweat and skin. And then I smell alcohol and a strong perfume, heavy with oud, and my heart sinks because I know exactly who that smell belongs to.

“I’ve got you,” Julian says against my cheek.